


love bites

by extremegraphicviolins



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Vampires, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-12-28 05:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21131600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremegraphicviolins/pseuds/extremegraphicviolins
Summary: “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what happened to you?” John asked. “All the bruises and bites… You look almost as if you’ve been attacked.”Beside him, Aziraphale laughed and tried to disguise it as a cough. “Yes, Crowley,” he said, smiling like the cat who was about to get the cream. “What happened to you?”





	love bites

** _Soho, London, 1816 AD_ **

It was the sun that woke Crowley up. Streaming through the windows like it had nothing better to do than interrupt a demon who was having some _ very _ good dreams. For a moment, Crowley wondered what had possessed him to leave the curtains drawn overnight. Eyes still closed, he rolled onto his stomach, smushed his face into the pillow, and gave his legs a stretch. As he moved, a dull ache spread through his hips and startled a quiet little _ ngh _out of him. 

Oh, _ right. _He’d spent the night at Aziraphale’s.

And _ oh, _what a night it had been. 

He could hear footsteps floating up from the bookshop downstairs — the floorboards always did have a squeak to them. Probably Aziraphale, bustling around and making tea and trying to decide if he should open the shop. Crowley glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Quarter to ten. Most of London would be awake by now. 

Well. Probably ought to get up, then. (Besides, he was bored.)

Crowley rolled out of bed, stretching his arms overhead and letting his spine crack and pop in a way that tended to make people cringe. He padded over to the little bathroom. Aziraphale technically didn’t need a bathroom, but it had come with the flat. He’d kept it because the bathtub was good for storing excess books in. Likewise, Crowley technically didn’t need to _ go _ to the bathroom, but a bath sounded especially nice to his sore muscles. 

Crowley paused in front of the bathroom mirror, and then did a double take, because _ wow. _No two ways about it, he looked like hell. Hair sticking up in every direction, dark circles under his eyes, little purple and red bruises littering his neck and chest and collarbone. 

Crowley ran his fingers over the bruises. Gently, at first, then harder, pressing into them, reveling in the ache. He could always miracle them away, of course, but there was something strangely appealing about being covered in love bites, something messy and lovely and _ human. _ Something that said, _ I’m his and he’s mine _and didn’t care if the whole world saw. 

Smiling, Crowley drew a bath. 

When the water got cold and his fingers had pruned up, he miracled on some clothes, grabbed his glasses off the nightstand, and headed downstairs. 

“...no, I’m afraid that this is not for sale,” Crowley heard Aziraphale saying as he walked through the back room. 

“Why, then, was it on the shelf?” came a young man’s voice in reply.

“An error on my part,” Aziraphale said. “Terribly sorry.”

Crowley snorted. Aziraphale had never once been sorry about not parting with a book, and he doubted he was going to start now. “Morning, Aziraphale,” Crowley said as he rounded the corner. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale brightened, and turned away from the pale, dark-haired young man who had been trying to buy a book. “How are you?”

_ Fantastic, _ he was going to say. _ Absolutely wonderful. Never been better. _

Instead, before Crowley could get a word in, the young man spoke. 

“Sir? Are you all right? I don’t mean to be rude, but you look…” The young man paused, taking in Crowley’s appearance. “Unwell,” he eventually said. “Rather unwell. I’m a physician, you see, Doctor John Polidori, and—”

“A doctor,” Crowley said. “How old are you? Nineteen?” 

“No,” John said. He crossed his arms. “Twenty.”

“I see,” Crowley said, trying very hard not to look amused. “Very well. As you were.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what happened to you?” John asked. “All the bruises and bites… You look almost as if you’ve been attacked.”

Beside him, Aziraphale laughed and tried to disguise it as a cough. “Yes, Crowley,” he said, smiling like the cat who was about to get the cream. “What happened to you?”

#

** _The night before_ **

“—angel, angel, angel, _ Aziraphale, oh.” _ Crowley moaned and threw his head back, giving Aziraphale better access to kiss and bite and suck at his throat. “Oh, _ fuck—” _

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale said, laving his tongue over the bruise he had just created. “You feel so _ good_.” 

The praise spread through Crowley like wildfire, and he keened, wrapping his legs tighter around Aziraphale’s soft middle, trying to urge him deeper. “You— you can go harder.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale said. “Would you like that?” He leaned down and pulled Crowley into a kiss, deep and slow and mind-meltingly good, punctuated with a deliberate roll of his hips. 

“Yeah,” Crowley gasped when they broke apart. _ “Yeah, _ just like that.”

Aziraphale gave another thrust. “And like this?”

“Yes, _ there, more—” _

“And this,” Aziraphale said, moving faster, hitting that sweet spot inside him over and over and over. “Like this?”

Beyond words, Crowley nodded fervently and kissed Aziraphale again, moaning into his mouth and tangling his hands in the angel’s hair, and rolling his hips up to meet Aziraphale’s and— _ oh. _

_ Oh god. _

_ Oh god oh god oh god— _

#

** _Now_ **

John was looking expectantly at him. Aziraphale was still smiling like anything, the bastard, all full of smugness and poorly-concealed glee. 

And Crowley… Crowley was about to do what he did best and sow the seeds of evil. Or at least of some minor mischief. 

Putting on as serious a face as he could muster, Crowley said gravely, “I was indeed attacked last night. You’re very astute, Doctor Polidori.”

John preened. “I thought as much,” he said. “By an animal? Or a man?”

“A man,” Crowley said, and paused for dramatic effect. Aziraphale cough-laughed again, which somewhat ruined the drama. “Something that _ used _to be a man, anyway.” 

John’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“Last night, I was attacked by something from the legions of the undead,” Crowley said. “It was cold, and pale, and had long, sharp fangs, and—” Aziraphale appeared to be having a coughing fit. Crowley shot him a look. “It tried to drink my blood,” he said solemnly. “From right. Here.” He tapped his neck, where the love bites Aziraphale given him last night were still tender. “Luckily, I escaped and lived to tell the tale.”

John was silent for a moment. “Is it really true?”

“Unequivocally,” Crowley said. “I know what I saw. What I felt.” He glanced at Aziraphale, who had more or less regained his composure. “The creature had remarkable speed and stamina, but miraculously, I survived.”

Aziraphale’s ‘coughing fit’ resumed with such ferocity that he retreated to the back room. 

John did not seem to notice. “Fascinating,” he said. “I’ve not heard of such a thing before. What, pray tell, is this creature called?” 

“Um,” said Crowley. “A… vampire?” Oh, fuck that sounded too uncertain, gotta play it cool— “A vampire,” he said, with more conviction. “Pray that you never meet one.”

“Oh, I doubt that I will,” John said with the sort of flippant confidence that only a twenty-year-old can possess. “They must be exceedingly rare.”

“Yes,” Crowley said, and glanced at Aziraphale, who had re-entered the room. “Very rare indeed.”

“Well,” said John, noticing that Aziraphale had returned, “if you aren’t in need of any medical attention… Are you certain that the volume we were discussing is not for sale?”

“Absolutely positive,” Aziraphale said. 

“I assure you, money is no object.”

“And I assure you, it is not for sale!”

“Why?”

“Because…” Aziraphale floundered for a moment. “Because it’s already been sold! Shouldn’t have even been on the shelf. Just a clerical error, like I said before. My apologies.”

“Mr Fell,” said John, “I mean you no disrespect, but that is a terrible way to run a business. Good day!” With that, he turned on his heel and left. Crowley could hear him muttering under his breath, “Vampire… I ought to remember that one.”

As soon as the door swished closed, Aziraphale burst out laughing. “My dear,” he said, “we have told a great many lies to keep from getting found out by humans, but that one really took the cake, didn’t it?”

“I panicked!” Crowley said, throwing his hands up. “What was I supposed to tell him? That I got shagged within an inch of my life by an angel?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, “that almost sounds more believable than getting attacked by a blood-sucking… what did you call it? A vampire?”

“Again,” Crowley said. “I panicked. And you know, this probably wouldn’t have happened if _ someone _ hadn’t done such a number on me last night.”

“Yes, I suppose I was rather… bitey, wasn’t I.” Aziraphale stepped closer to him and traced his fingers over the purple-red bruises on Crowley’s jaw and neck and collarbone. Crowley drew in a sharp breath. “Was it really so awful,” he murmured, “that you’d compare me to a bloodthirsty, undead fiend?”

“No,” Crowley said, thinking back to last night, to Aziraphale on him and in him, lavishing him in sweet affections and working at his throat with teeth and tongue. “It was glorious.” 

“Good,” Aziraphale whispered, and captured Crowley’s lips in a kiss. It was slow and deep, overflowing with love and far more tongue than was proper for eleven in the morning. 

In short, it was perfect. 

“What do you say,” Crowley said when they came up for air that neither of them really needed, “that you close up this bookshop, we go upstairs, and I show you what my terrifying vampire encounter was like?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, his pupils dilating and his cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink. “Oh, _ yes_.”

#

** _London, 2008 AD_ **

_ “Crowley.” _

Crowley crumpled up the empty popcorn bag into a ball, trying to get it as small and compressed as he possibly could. “Yes, angel?”

“That film was absolutely dreadful.”

Crowley grinned. “It was, wasn’t it?” He glanced down at the balled-up popcorn bag, which could not get much denser at this point, and dropped it in a trash can as they left the theatre. All around them were people buzzing excitedly about the movie, many of them wearing shirts that said _ Team Edward _ or _ Team Jacob. _ “Got a commendation for it, actually. And you know what the best part of it all is?”

“The ending?” Aziraphale asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“No,” Crowley said. “Well, yes. But no. No, the best part is that I barely had to lift a finger.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Aziraphale. “The humans seem to have no trouble coming up with terrible things all on their own.” 

“Actually, angel,” Crowley said as they made their way back to the Bentley, “this was one of yours.”

Aziraphale gasped. “It most certainly was not! I had no hand in this whatsoever.”

“Oh, but you did,” Crowley said, enjoying himself. “Do you remember, around the turn of the century—”

“Which century, dearest?”

“Nineteenth, I think. Anyway, we were at the shop, and you were trying to scare off some bloke when I did my walk of shame downstairs.”

“Oh, was this when that priest saw you and tried to pray for your health—”

“—and his hair caught fire? No, different time,” Crowley said. “This was the time with the doctor.”

“Oh, yes, that one,” said Aziraphale. “He saw the love bites I’d left on you and thought you’d been attacked—”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“—and you told him it was a vampire, of all things,” Aziraphale finished. “Yes, I remember him. Though I fail to see how this monstrosity of a movie was my fault.”

“Well,” said Crowley, “does the name John Polidori ring any bells?”

“A few, yes,” Aziraphale said. “Mary and George mentioned him a couple of times [1]. He sounded like quite a good writer. Pity I never got to meet him; he died rather young.”

“You did meet him,” Crowley said.

“What? When?”

“At the bookshop, post-walk of shame.”

“Oh.” At this point, they’d reached the Bentley, and the pieces started coming together. _ “Oh. _ Oh, _ no. _ Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “this wouldn’t happen to be the John Polidori who wrote _ The Vampyre_, would it?”

Crowley grinned. “The very same. Did quite well for himself. _ The Vampyre _ ended up kicking off the whole genre of vampire fiction. _ Varney the Vampire_, _ Carmilla_, _ Dracula_… even _Twilight_, I suppose.” 

“Then _ Twilight _ was one of yours,” said Aziraphale, “since you were the one who lied and told John it was a vampire.”

Crowley shrugged. “Wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t been so bitey that night. Ergo, _ Twilight _ is your fault.”

Aziraphale got in the Bentley with a huff. “You could have miracled the marks away.”

“Yeah, well.” Crowley slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. “Maybe I didn’t want to.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and felt his heart swell. That Crowley wanted him, that Crowley _ loved _him, was nothing new. They’d been crazy about each other long enough to watch continents shift, to see empires rise and fall, to watch as the world changed so dramatically yet stayed so much the same. It had been millenia, and the fact that Crowley wanted the world to see proof of their love, proof that he was Aziraphale’s and Aziraphale was his… it still took Aziraphale’s breath away. “They’ve faded.”

Crowley laughed softly. “‘Course they have, angel. It’s been two hundred years.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “if you’re amenable, perhaps I could give you some new ones when we get home.”

“What, and risk inspiring another _ Twilight_?”

Aziraphale took one of Crowley’s hands off the wheel and pressed a kiss to his palm before twining their fingers together. “It would be well worth it.”

Crowley went a lovely shade of red. The Bentley nearly swerved off the road.

“Now, please don’t crash, dear,” said Aziraphale. He let go of Crowley’s hand, and instead slid his hand up Crowley’s thigh. “We’ve got plans, remember?”

“Ngk,” said Crowley, and drove.

They were home in record time. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Aziraphale was, of course, referring to Mary Shelley, who famously wrote Frankenstein and invented the genre of science fiction, and Lord George Gordon Byron, who famously wrote poetry and had numerous sex scandals.  [ return to text ]
> 
> thanks for reading!! i would LOVE to hear what you thought of this fic so feel free to leave a comment!


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